Poetry Archives

A thousand times I would have hoped,
  A thousand times protested;
But still, as through the night I groped,
  My torch from me was wrested,
      and wrested.

How often with a succoring cup
  Unto the hurt I hasted!
The wounded died ere I came up;
  My cup was still untasted,—
      Untasted.

Of darkness, wounds, and harsh disdain
  Endured, I ne’er repented.
‘T is not of these I would complain:
  With these I were contented,—
      Contented.

Here lies the misery, to feel
  No work of love completed;
In prayerless passion still to kneel,
  And mourn, and cry: “Defeated
      Defeated!”